


should (not) be running

by gudetama (elementary)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Confusion, Emotions, Friends to Lovers, Idiots In Love support group, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, dumb boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: You say we're just friendsBut friends don't know the way you taste- from the songSenorita





	should (not) be running

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sssilkworms](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sssilkworms).

> so it all started with that single line when I first heard the song and I got to writing some [30-something thread](https://twitter.com/goodytama/status/1163295601271955456) with [silks](https://twitter.com/275boxes) who basically co-wrote this and they were like [how about if it were a fic](https://twitter.com/275boxes/status/1164342068514185218) so I was all okay sounds fun but then there were so many feelings and it got complicated and it took a while LOL.
> 
> here it is though, so enjoy dumb boys being dumb after kissing

If they had to describe how it all started, the word would be ‘unconventional’. One doesn’t exactly choose to meet someone via near-detainment over a misunderstanding, then proceed to enforce a negative impression through subsequent, unintentional confrontations. To this day, Newt questions how they came to this point in the first place, that being what most might call a friendly relationship. _Friends_, to put it simply.

The concept of friendship per se was and is unconventional to Newt, not having much encountered circumstances that result in a sustained acquaintance. If not his family, those of his profession, the odd person or two, or simply non-human, he has a very short list of current interpersonal relationships. And he would never have thought the Director of Magical Security in the United States would be on it, suffice to say.

Percival Graves, a man of power and discipline and societal rules, everything that Newt never cared for yet finds himself tangled in it no matter how hard he tries to escape it.

Newt can’t tell where their conversations start and arguments end, if they can even be separated. He doesn’t know who causes more trouble for the other because while he may jump first and think later, Percival thinks too much and fears boundaries. Ten minutes is too long a time to remain stationary for him and Percival sits at a desk for hours on end. Yet they somehow fit the definition of ‘friends’ in everyone’s eyes.

Friends who work in the same space, who ironically bring each other food because they’re both forgetful when it comes to sustenance, who frequently argue about legal issues and wake the other up when they fall asleep from overworking.

Friends who spend a significant time in one another’s presence, Tina says more than once.

And so he figures that’s what it is, to constantly adapt to someone as they do to him the more they learn about one another, to accept whatever he feels as part of the growth in relationship.

That’s why, he suspects, that he wasn’t prepared at all. That following yet another life-threatening situation and Percival calling him a foolish man as usual, his friend putting his mouth on Newt’s was the last thing he expected to desire. Kissing, Newt belatedly recognizes, long after Percival abruptly pulls away and gives orders to finish up like nothing happened.

Long after, in his (not-so-temporary-anymore) New York residence, getting nipped by a few of the creatures due to his spacing out during feeding. And then his face grows hot, a saliva-slick hand going to his lips which finally breaks him out of the trance.

He spends the rest of that night awake thinking about it for reasons he can’t name, and in the morning, gets ready for work before he can convince himself not to.

It isn’t surprising that he sees Percival first the moment he steps off the elevator, nearly causing him to jump right back in.

“Good morning,” Percival greets, sounding deliberately casual.

“Good morning,” Newt returns and not meeting his eyes; nothing unusual. “Getting coffee? I’d like a cup, if you don’t mind. And um—with—”

“Lots of milk and sugar,” Percival finishes.

Newt nods a bit vigorously. “Right, that. I’ll. I’ll see you inside.”

Before the other man can even think about saying something else, Newt rushes past him into the hall. Mercy Lewis, he handled that rather spectacularly, didn’t he; asking for _coffee_, for goodness sake.

As the day goes by, however, they don’t meet very often even officially. Percival appears fairly unbothered by what occurred last night and hasn’t attempted any other conversation beyond reports either (though Newt did notice contemplative stares his way). In the end, Newt’s calm enough to not panic over coming back to work the next day.

The panic actually sets in on Thursday, when everything seems to be normal. Percival gets up from his desk after a deep sigh and Newt asks if he’s getting more coffee.

“Yes,” Percival answers. “Would you like a cup as well?” And he says it with such a straight face, Newt knows he’s teasing.

Newt frowns in disapproval. “No, thank you. How many times have I said to reduce your intake? This isn’t good for you in the least.”

At that, Percival’s face softens, a rare and open smile crossing his face. “What a good friend. I will have to further consider your advice, however.”

For some reason Newt feels struck by the expression, likely because of the words accompanying it. Not many compliment him on being a good friend so it’s quite flattering. Also, Percival doesn’t smile very often and it’s like a reward sometimes to see. His eyes go to the soft curve of it, the pink of delicate lips.

_But would a friend know the way you taste_, he thinks unbidden.

Newt turns away hastily, hoping to hide a rising flush. “S-see that you do, Mr. Graves.”

Unfortunately, that isn’t a single occurrence. Percival has a terrible, awful habit of thinking with his hands to his mouth and for an often-distracted person like Newt, his eyes are drawn every time whenever the man starts rubbing at his lips. What many matters he needs to so deeply contemplate throughout the day, Newt has no idea.

He cannot excuse it as having poor condition that day when the problem persists into their weekend lunch. Words stumble worse than usual and blood constantly rushes to his face. Percival keeps smiling, too, which has an unusual effect on his heart.

Something changed, and Newt isn’t sure if he wants to find out what or why. They already—it’s good, what he has. But of course, when has his heart ever been limited by anything?

So a few days later, Newt dresses for work, picks up his suitcase, and without thinking heads to the port.

* * *

Despite initial concerns, Percival’s incomprehensible actions following Newt’s blunder on a completely normal case were dismissed quite easily. He had fallen into a fitful sleep that night after rehearsing apologies and had steeled himself in the morning to face his possibly-ex-friend. Yet Newt graciously put the matter aside and all was well.

He should have known it would come back to curse him.

When one of the aurors enter his office on Monday sometime after the incident, also allowing a familiar owl to fly in, Percival gives it a curious glance but thinks not much of it although Newt usually lacks the foresight to communicate his status ahead of time. The letter remains unopened until the auror leaves and Percival feeds the owl a treat first.

Instead of some explanation as to Newt’s current lack of presence as he thought, the content reads that Newt is taking an emergency leave of absence and vacating his position indefinitely.

_Sorry_, it finishes, messily written even for Newt as if it had been done in haste.

Frowning, Percival reads it again, flips the paper then back. Nothing else, even when searched with magic. Their last case having just finished, this really is no problem work-wise but it evokes personal concern.

He writes a quick response, hoping that Newt isn’t in any trouble and that he has help should the man need it.

The owl returns in a few days with a single line, _Everything is fine_, which is even more worrisome because one never knows what ‘fine’ means in the world of Newt Scamander.

Little did he know that that would be the last letter from Newt for months.

Percival starts with asking for updates, and doesn’t have answers when others ask after their missing consultant.

“He’s fine,” Percival says but not really believing it himself.

And in his concern he doesn’t suspect anything until later; not even when Tina persistently asks if he has heard from Newt, assuming their friendship to be the case.

“Have you?” he asks in return one day, wanting an end to this futile conversation. The day had been long and the question only served to frustrate him of being in the dark about the man.

“No, sir,” Tina answers after a brief pause.

The pause itself wouldn’t have given him anything but there had also been the slightest stiffening of her posture. Tina, as good an auror she is, has never quite mastered the art of deception; at least, not in his eyes. As soon as she notices the change in his gaze, she bids him good night and leaves quickly.

With a bit of investigation then enduring a sympathetic Queenie, his suspicions are confirmed.

_Are you avoiding me, Newt Scamander_, he writes in his next letter.

An occamy feather arrives not long after that, which Newt probably meant as a ‘no’ but Percival can only interpret it as ‘yes’.

Any way he thinks about it, Newt can only be avoiding him because of _that_, and Merlin’s fucking beard how could he have been so foolish to think all had been well? It’s _Newt_, who takes all social mannerisms and rules and twists them into a labyrinth for him to navigate. Of course he had been biding his time, dealing with something that he couldn’t understand, that Percival hadn’t explained.

But how could he have explained when he barely understood it himself?

A kiss, short and deep and inappropriate for their relationship, in a spur of the moment. It isn’t often that he catches himself by surprise, ever in control of his thoughts and actions lest they become another’s weapon against him. And a surprise it was, because it had him wondering afterwards what could possibly have existed in his mind initially that somehow developed into kissing Newt Scamander.

Impulsive as it may have been, it couldn’t have been done without basis.

Newt must have seen, sensed it, the keen person he is; how Percival is comfortable with him, simultaneously frustrated and charmed by his presence and unconsciously, constantly seeking those green eyes.

The consequences are greater than he had imagined. An apology might be too late, but also it might not be completely honest. He regrets the timing and execution, certainly, but the intention...

Percival rubs a hand over his forehead, heaves a sigh at his own idiocy.

He stares down at the blank parchment.

What sincerity he can express is even more inadequate with the limitation of mere written words. But without the faintest idea of where the man might be, that’s the only thing that can reach him.

Yet what is he to say? That he hadn’t meant to ruin an important (and now decidedly precarious) friendship with desires unknown even to him at the time?

What would that mean to Newt? Given that he needs to be told some things in the most direct way, and tends to interpret negative responses towards him as a rejection of his very person.

_Dear Newt, I offer my sincere apologies,_, he starts, for causing the problem at least. _If you are willing, please allow me to explain myself. If you cannot stand to look at me any time soon, then I shall wait._

An owl flies in the next week with a package holding another feather—bright, pink—and Percival takes it to mean they most definitely will not be talking yet, if at all.

Perhaps he should be grateful that Newt even deigns to respond.

“What should I do now?” he asks the bird, handing over a treat.

The owl obviously cares little, happy with its well-deserved snack and no other worry. 

* * *

It’s easy to plan his route. Many of Newt’s destinations are revisiting his research subjects now that the seasons have changed, while some are checking on recently rehabilitated creatures. After a brief stop at Theseus’s place and deflecting a most nosy and overbearing brother, he sets off on this impromptu journey.

It was time, he tells himself. Not exactly well thought-out, perhaps, but Percival will understand—hopefully.

The man knows Newt isn’t the best with words, hasn’t the ability to express them properly even with preparation. He’s not avoiding Percival, really. It's the possibility of a situation he isn't equipped to handle.

Percival will understand.

That’s why his friend keeps sending letters like he still cares for him, talking about the plants Newt had given him and the creatures that were rescued on raids. And Newt continues to not have the faintest idea on what to say because he cannot possibly write that he recalls a specific moment repeatedly and wants more, that Percival might see something unusual Newt’s actions and find it repulsive.

Shed scales and furs, stray feathers are all he has to show that he’s alive and the creatures are doing well.

He receives letters from Tina and the others as well saying that things aren’t the same in their department which puzzles him.

Theseus isn’t subtle either whenever Newt visits in between trips, asking when he plans to return to the States.

“Is there really nothing else that’s bothering you?” his brother questions pointedly, knowing him too well. “You might just be worrying too much.”

Newt politely replies that it’s none of his business, and he’s busy with research.

But what truly occupies his thoughts is how he hasn’t seen or heard Percival in a while, picturing the man’s various frowns and the rare smile, remembering his scolding but also every encouragement. They had spent enough time together that the absence of the other is felt sorely even though this is of Newt’s own doing.

His letters come less frequently now, which Newt isn’t sure whether to be relieved about or not. It’s the only way he has news about how the man is doing but also Newt’s responses are terribly redundant. At this point, he wonders if this distance is all that important when he still hasn’t figured out what to do.

There is a month of silence during which he debates leaving, and the answer to his indecisiveness arrives on a crumpled, dirty sheet of paper.

_I miss you._

Something twists in his chest because Newt feels the very same, and it’s almost surreal to see the sentiment visibly in black ink. He runs fingers over every mark on a once pristine parchment, wonders the reason for them, and folds it up into a square to tuck inside his coat’s pocket.

“Say hello to him for me, will you,” Theseus says as parting words, smile too innocent.

Newt turns away with a huff and leaves.

The ride back is both too long and too short, and his heart picks up speed from the moment he lands back on American soil. In his desire to get to the Woolworth building quickly, he even remembers to flip the muggle switch on his suitcase beforehand and after passing customs, he runs.

With the sun just rising, Newt arrives at the great, tall stronghold of MACUSA and the next thing he knows, he’s already passing by the overnight workers in the DMLE and barging through elegantly-crafted doors.

Percival is there at his desk as expected—always early, always available—and he looks up, shocked. Brows furrow at first in confusion then something else, and a couple unfamiliar expressions fleet by before settling into a frown. It’s one of those polite, professional looks, and it takes Newt aback. Not since the beginning of their acquaintance has he seen it directed his way, when they had been strangers and co-workers.

_Was this a mistake?_

“Hello, Newt,” Percival says first after a minute.

Despite the day having just started, the man sounds tired.

“Hello,” Newt returns quietly, grip tightening on his suitcase handle.

Percival’s next words sound mechanical. “I hope your time away was fruitful.”

“Ah, well—”

There isn’t an accurate response to this; it’s neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’ in that Newt doesn’t know what he wished to accomplish in the first place. He had needed time away to not only examine his changed perspective but also not be tempted to thoughtlessly act upon it, yet standing here facing the subject of all this internal struggle—

Newt steps forward, and as he approaches, pulls out what he kept safe and close to his heart this whole way back. When he lays it on the desk, Percival’s face moves with recognition and breaks into an unhappy thing.

“Um, this is—” Newt starts hastily. “I felt the same, that is, I have missed being here and—”

“I see,” Percival interrupts with a sigh before he can say the important part. “I know what this was about and I do apologize, inadequate as that may be. But we can talk more later when—”

Percival stops, too, because his hand reaches to take the folded paper and Newt instinctively snatches it away, thinking _that’s mine_. They both lock eyes, surprised, and strangely enough Percival turns away first. Without another word he gets up and grabs his coat and Newt loses a moment in watching the elegant twist of his arms sliding into the sleeves, the fit of the garment settling handsomely on his figure.

Just as he’s stepping past him, Newt’s fingers snag on a wrist and he blurts out, “I missed you, too.” When the man pauses, he quickly continues. “What I did, regarding what happened, was—it wasn’t any fault on your part.”

“I highly doubt that,” Newt hears his friend mutter. “Newt, it’s fine—”

“Then are we still friends?”

Percival finally looks up, and it’s a familiar expression when he thinks Newt is being particularly difficult. “Yes, of course.” Then he seems to consider his words, frowning. “If you wish, that is. This really doesn’t have to—”

“Just friends?” Newt forces out before he can think again.

A pause, and then, “What do you mean?”

“I—I don’t know,” he says honestly, throat tightening, cheeks heating. “I really don’t. I’ve thought about it, tried my best but...”

“But what.”

Newt lets out a frustrated noise. “I said I don’t know. Can’t you simply answer?”

At that, Percival tugs his arm away turns to fully face him. “Newt, I’ve been here wondering for months how an impulsive move on my part ruined something important to me, never mind future possibilities. It had me watching every written word lest I cause further damage and all I received were things that could have meant anything from a perfunctory response to a plea that I leave you alone.”

By this point, the man is standing tall in that intimidating posture fitting of his position and somehow it doesn’t faze Newt one bit.

“I’m really quite done with guessing,” Percival finishes and it’s tired, resigned.

It doesn’t take long for Newt to process everything and make a decision. “You said you missed me.”

“Yes, I did,” Percival quietly answers. “I’d like to have that back—”

“Would you kiss me again?”

“Yes, I—” Percival blinks in disbelief. “Wait, that’s—”

But he doesn’t finish, because Newt has hands on each side of the man’s head and is pulling him up to meet his mouth. It throws both of them slightly off-balance and they stumble a little, but the desk just behind Percival catches them. A hot breath bursts against Newt’s lips and he keeps pressing forward, tasting at last what nearly became his imagination only.

He can’t open his eyes for fear of what he might see, and then hears something, a sigh, before soft lips move over his. Percival’s hand pulls him closer by the waist, and another brushes against his jaw to coax a better fit. The next kiss is deeper after parting for the briefest second, a slick slide and gentle press, and something wells up in Newt’s chest—a relief so great that prickles his eyes and nose.

Percival’s eyes are that warm, familiar brown Newt has come to know when he sees them again, and even as a thumb wipes at his wet lips, he can’t look away.

“Is this the answer you were seeking,” Percival says more than asks, low and gentle.

Newt doesn’t even need to consider. “I think I need to hear it once more. Please.”

The smile he’s given is absolutely gorgeous—eyes curved and lips stretched wide—and it quickens his heart just like it did all those months ago; now, however he’s filled with anticipation rather than apprehension.

Their third (fourth) kiss is a tender touch, light and warm, and it stays with Newt for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THIS IS HOW THEY KISSED bless you silks - [BEAUTIFUL ART HERE](https://twitter.com/275boxes/status/1164431509161304064)


End file.
